


to the edge of night

by gravitational



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Battle of the Hornburg | Battle of Helm's Deep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational
Summary: Legolas seeks out Aragorn following their victory in battle, knowing all too well his habit of concealment. They find solace in eachother's presence.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	to the edge of night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the Tolkien fandom, and as of now, my knowledge comes only from the movies, so this work (and any other) will play fast and loose with canon. Regardless, I hope to do these characters justice.
> 
> "Edge of Night" - The Return of the King

The halls of Helm's Deep are quiet when Legolas slips noiselessly from his quarters, graciously given to him by Theoden as thanks for his part in the battle. He's a stranger to the structure, but it is easy enough to follow the traces of Aragorn's scent toward a chamber farther into the fortress's depths. It should come as no surprise to him that he hears movement from within as he draws near, and yet he finds that, somehow, he'd hoped his friend would be smart enough to retire for the night.

Legolas sighs, shakes his head, lifts a hand to knock. He shifts his weight on light feet, all too conscious now of how bereft he feels without the familiar weight of his bow slung across his back, without his cloak upon his shoulders. He'd meant to sink into bed and sleep til dawn, starved of proper slumber thanks to their travels, but concern had drawn him back to his feet and down the corridors. Aragorn had been injured in the fight, he knew - they all had, to be fair, but Aragorn prides himself upon being a master of concealment, and Legolas is unsure as to the true extent of his wounds.

Beyond the heavy wooden door, he hears the rustling movements stall upon his knock, and then a sigh, comforting in its familiarity. Something is tossed onto the cushion of a bed before footsteps cross the floor. Legolas straightens his spine, for all that it is already rigid, clearing his throat as the door swings open. He's met with worn and wary eyes that soften almost instantly when they light upon his face; Aragorn's shoulders slump as he breathes out, sudden and deep. "Legolas."

"Aragorn," he replies, hushed; when Aragorn steps back and motions uselessly with a hand that seems weak, he slips into the room past his frame, soundless in his movement just as ever. The door closes with a soft thud as they pivot to face eachother once more. "I had hoped I would find you asleep, yet it is not the case."

Aragorn huffs then, his exhale a puff of laughter, and shakes his head. He folds his arms across his chest, and Legolas does not miss the brief grimace that crosses his face when he shifts his stance, weight crossing from one foot to the other; he holds his arms more carefully than normal. "You ought to know by now that I do not often make a point of doing as you like, my friend."

Legolas offers only the fragment of a smile as courtesy, however, for he is already fixated upon that grimace, and is striding closer to close the gap between them, a hand hovering scant breadths from Aragorn's upper arm. "You're hurt," he says. "Where?"

"It's of no consequence, Legolas. A bandage and rest will do me well."

Legolas has no intention of being dismissed. "Where?" he repeats, more deliberately, for he is far too weary with Aragorn's martyrdom to stand this tonight.

Aragorn merely looks at him, and Legolas holds his gaze.

He can place the exact moment when his friend breaks, exhaustion winning out. Aragorn sighs, and his shoulders drop once more as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. Legolas drifts closer on instinct alone, pulled in his wake. "It's a spear wound, nothing more," Aragorn is saying, stripping off his jerkin. He'd shed his scabbards, vambraces and boots already, Legolas observes, but he still wears even the chainmail.

Dressed for a battle, even though they've long since won.

Legolas watches in quiet consternation as Aragorn lifts the maille over his head, letting it drop with a metallic rustle to the floor at the foot of the bed. The coppery tang of blood is faint on the air, but Legolas' nose wrinkles regardless. Aragorn's shirt is deeper red at a point halfway up his ribs - deeper red, and torn, no, pierced, just like the flesh beneath.

"A bandage will do you good, yes," Legolas says, with a long-suffering sigh, as he looks about the small chamber, "but it will only do you good if you _use_ it, Aragorn." He hears his friend scoff, but he ignores it as he often does, crossing the room for the pitcher of water and basin on the table against the wall. There are several candles sitting there, all lit, despite the drafts within the room causing the flames to dance; they offer the only scant light, dim yet not unpleasant.

"You've no way of knowing if I meant to bandage it before your arrival or not," Aragorn says behind him, and Legolas bites his tongue. His friend's tone is playful, for all that he sounds exhausted; no doubt the prospect of a true bed is luring him. "Perhaps you've interfered with my plans."

Legolas turns back with a look of bemusement upon his features, bringing over the pitcher and basin to set them on the floor at Aragorn's feet. He ignores Aragorn's half-formed protest, sinking to his knees and pouring water into the basin. "You fool no one," he says with an upward glance, though he casts his gaze down when he dips the rag draped on the basin's edge into the water, "and especially not me."

"At least stand off the floor," Aragorn sighs, and Legolas does not have to look to know he's exasperated. "You're far from a servant, Legolas."

Legolas gives a quiet laugh then, wringing the rag out so it's merely damp and sitting up straighter on his heels. "One would think a king would be more willing to have subervients," he says, softly teasing, as he lifts the rag to the puncture that, from the looks if it, merely skated along bone rather than piercing anything of import; a nuisance, a pain, and not the easiest wound to heal, but nothing too major.

Aragorn's breath escapes in a hiss at the first touch, and his fingers flex where he grips the sheets beside him. "I believe I would rather keep you as a friend for the time being, my prince."

Legolas simply shakes his head, wiping away the blood that's drying around the wound before he sets to dabbing it clean. Aragorn is tense, but he doesn't flinch. "And as a friend you shall have me," Legolas says beneath his breath. "Meanwhile, I'd quite like my friend to admit when his wounds need attention in order to prevent infection, which he should already know would slow us down considerably - "

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and Legolas glances up. His heart tightens at the thin smile on Aragorn's face, sincere even though his body so clearly wishes to succumb. "Your friend need not admit it," Aragorn says quietly, "for you're already taking care of things yourself."

Legolas simply scoffs, though it is soft, impossibly fond. "You exhaust me," he mutters, dropping the bloodied cloth in the basin and pausing for a beat. He knows there are likely bandages elsewhere in the fort - there have to be - but he finds himself unwilling to part from Aragorn's company, however briefly. His eyes light upon the edge of the sheet where it hangs down off the bed. Before Aragorn can protest - for he knows he will - Legolas draws his dagger from its scabbard on his thigh, but he only makes it as far as gripping the fabric before Aragorn's leg is obstructing his way.

"Legolas."

"It needs to be wrapped, Aragorn - "

"Have you thought to check my satchel?" Aragorn's voice is thick with humor.

Legolas grits his teeth, heaving a sigh in an effort to drag some of his patience back. He sheathes his dagger once more, taking a beat to undo the scabbard from his thigh and set it aside on the small table at the bedside, that he might calm himself with the familiar motions. "You exhaust _and_ infuriate me," he announces, rising to cross the room for the larger table once more. Aragorn's satchel lays discarded upon its surface, and he ignores the sound of his friend's low chuckle at his back, rummaging through until his fingers find a roll of thick white cloth.

"Our bond," Aragorn says, as Legolas turns back, "would not be nearly so strong if I did not." He's wearing that lazy, canary-caught grin, head cocked to the side and storm-bright eyes glinting with private affection.

Legolas does not know whether he loves or loathes him.

Dropping the roll of cloth on the bed at Aragorn's side and reaching for his dagger once more, Legolas makes quick work of cutting a lengthy section off one end. "For all that you are to be a king, you often act as though you are a child," he says, and nods for Aragorn to raise his arms. The ranger does so only partway, really doing little more than extending them out to the sides of his body, but even Legolas' sidelong frown encourages nothing more. Breathing out, Legolas sets to work, beginning the slow and deliberate process of wrapping the cloth around his torso, pressing gentle yet firm over the puncture each pass around.

Positioned as they are now, Legolas standing yet leaning down close, their heads are near enough that Legolas can hear Aragorn's every breath with ease. He can hear when they hitch in discomfort, and, not long after, when one is drawn in deeper than before; Aragorn tips his head forward, letting his brow come to rest on Legolas' upper arm even though it's in motion.

"You're in the way, Aragorn," he murmurs, thinking little of it. The man is exhausted, no doubt, perhaps closer to unconsciousness than he lets on. "Let me finish binding - "

He breaks off when a hand comes to rest on his waist, light enough for scarcely any pressure to be felt. Now, Aragorn is truly in the way, and Legolas breathes out a sigh, letting go of the bandages with one hand to grip Aragorn's arm. "Aragorn," he says again, soft and patient. "You can rest once I'm done."

"I find I'm not very interested in rest," Aragorn says, his tone just as quiet, edged with mischief. His meaning dawns as he deigns to pull Legolas in closer, tilting his head up enough to meet the elf's gaze, and, yet again, Legolas merely sighs. He can sense it now, that strange peculiarity of men - that crackle of lust and need upon their skin after the heat of battle and the thrill of victory. It is far beyond his own understanding.

"You're wounded," he reminds him, pushing Aragorn's arm down from his waist, that he may at least continue wrapping said injuries. "Furthermore, it's late, and you ought to be resting even now. Not all of us heal as elvenkind, Aragorn."

Aragorn gives a humming noise that, from anyone else, would have been affirmation, though Legolas knows better. Sure enough, although the ranger lets go of him and straightens back up, he leans back farther on the bed this time, weight propped upon his hands. There's an amused glint in his eyes, especially when Legolas gives him a dry, bewildered stare. In this position, it's entirely impossible for him to carry on.

"Need I remind you that you frustrate me?" he asks, letting the bandage hang limp from one hand as he straightens again. "Your misplaced sense of martyrdom need not extend /this/ far, Aragorn."

"And yet it does - what of it?" Aragorn muses, finally complying - at least enough to take the cloth from Legolas' hand. He makes the last two passes of it around his waist himself, and Legolas watches tiredly as the ranger ties off the end, tucking it beneath itself for it to be secure. "Is this more to your liking, my prince?"

The words are once more on the tip of Legolas' tongue, but he bites them back, merely nodding. "And now," he says, motioning toward the single, forlorn pillow at the head of the bed, "you will rest."

He imagines he should have expected the hand that grips his wrist when he makes to turn away, fully intent upon leaving Aragorn to his slumber. Breathing out the sigh of a man whose patience would be long exhausted were it not for fellowship, he looks back to the ranger, stalling his feet.

"If you won't lay with me," Aragorn says, and the strange little glimmer in his eye has dulled, gone soft, become something kinder, "at least lay beside me."

_It's vulnerability,_ Legolas muses, brief and fleeting. So very odd to see on a man who prides himself so deeply on his strength, his resilience.

Legolas knows he should disagree, should retreat to his own quarters and leave Aragorn to his devices... but he is weak when it comes to his friends, and particularly when it comes to Aragorn himself. He lasts scarce but another heartbeat, holding those quiet eyes, before he surrenders, letting the gentle pull on his wrist guide him back to Aragorn's bedside. He sinks to rest just at the ranger's side, submits without resistance when Aragorn's fingers drift up the length of his arm, his shoulder, his neck - come to cup his face with delicacy.

"You fought well this night," Aragorn murmurs, and Legolas does just as well to fight the urge to tilt into his palm when a thumb ghosts along his cheek. "Many a life was saved."

A twinge of remorse tugs at his heart then, and Legolas draws back for his own defense, laying back upon the sheets. "And yet many more were lost because I failed to kill the torch-bearer in time." His tone is even enough, eyes on the ceiling overhead, and truthfully, he would be more than amenable to letting the matter drop entirely... but Aragorn latches onto his guilt as a hound to the hunt, turning to look down upon him.

"There is always a 'could have' in war, Legolas," Aragorn points out; Legolas has cut his gaze off to the side, yet he needs not look to know the softness has returned to those maddening eyes. "There is grief, yes, but also joy in having won, even though the cost of victory is far greater than we'd desired."

Legolas simply hums, less than convinced, though he knows Aragorn's words hold truth. Regardless, he's eager to push the matter aside, and so he reaches for Aragorn's arm, grip gentle yet pointed. "I didn't ask your reassurance."

Aragorn gives a soft laugh, saying as he lays down at Legolas' side, "No, I suppose you didn't." He settles into place with the slightest grimace and puff of air, on his non-injured side. When his arm comes to rest across Legolas' waist, the elf relaxes, shifting into him and tipping his head to rest on Aragorn's chest. It's a familiar position for them, one they've assumed through many a weary night on their travels. None of their companions have seem inclined to care thus far, though they'd certainly observed.

"You smell of blood, too, my friend," Aragorn is saying, his voice even quieter than before, pressed into nearly-white hair. "I trust you're alright...?"

Legolas nods in affirmation, breathing out a heavy sigh and laying one hand over Aragorn's own. Although they're almost identical in height and stature, Legolas is slimmer, more lithe; Aragorn's embrace envelops him with ease. "Cuts and scrapes, perhaps, but nothing direct, nor anything major. Nothing that won't heal with ease."

Aragorn offers only a hum in reply, though it's clearly one of relief; Legolas feels the vibrations of it through his frame. "Good," he murmurs, the words muffled by a sigh that melts into a yawn. Legolas lets his eyes drift shut, impossibly soothed by the brush of Aragorn's fingertips across his ribs and flanks. "Rest now, my friend. Stay by my side tonight."

Legolas bites back words that would come far too near to a confession, squeezing Aragorn's wrist where it's laid across him in return. He falls into quiet, and the ranger does the same. Listening to Aragorn's deep, regular breaths as they even out, he finds himself sinking into slumber before very long.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter (also known as the explicit content) will be posted once it's completed. Comments are always welcome, as is criticism!
> 
> tumblr: gravitational813


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